Bo stood and walked around his desk until he was standing directly in front of Quinn. "I'll give you a chance to write out your confession exactly as you told it to me. You have my word that I'll deliver it to the Vegas district attorney."
Bo began untying Quinn's gag. "Sorry, Vegas, but that's the best I can do-a relatively painless death, a bullet to the forehead, just like your brother-in-law. We'll bury you at the bottom of the Atlantic and send a note to the authorities from the Avenger along with your confession. Just think-by dying, you might actually save your sister's life."
Quinn spit out the gag. "If there's a God," he said, "I hope you rot in hell."
Bo unhooked Quinn's right arm and wrenched it next to his left wrist, causing pain in Quinn's rotator cuff. "A mouth like that, and I can see why Billy got a little carried away." Bo handcuffed Quinn's wrists together, put leg-irons on his ankles, and undid the leather restraints.
"I'm going to let you go to the head right across the hall," Boland said. "Wash the blood off your face. Get ready for your final meal on deck. A good man like you is entitled to one last meal."
Bizarre, thought Quinn. But he wouldn't refuse this small act of decency. Anything to buy a little more time.
"What about Catherine?" Quinn asked. "A rape victim. How do you live with yourself, putting this whole thing on her?"
"Catherine will be fine," Boland said sternly. "Her only mistake was dragging you into this. Go clean up. I'll tell you the plan while you write your confession."
Quinn shuffled across the hall, followed closely by Bo, and appraised himself in the bathroom mirror. He washed some blood from his swollen face, wincing in pain as he dabbed at his cheek with a washcloth. The gash continued to seep new blood, looking like it might require half a dozen stitches to sew it shut. But Quinn's mind was elsewhere. If he could just get to the deck, maybe even dive overboard
… could he even swim with handcuffs and leg-irons on? Would he stand a chance of getting rescued in the dark waters of the Atlantic?
Probably not, but what were his options?
Still at gunpoint, Quinn returned to the converted guest suite. Bo snapped on some rubber gloves, removed a sheet of paper from a package on the desk, and broke a new pen out of its plastic container.
"Start writing," Bo ordered. "Nothing cute or I won't deliver it."
His mind racing ahead, Quinn slowly printed his confession. If nothing else, at least Sierra might be reunited with her mom.
Bo stood behind Quinn, watching carefully. "You're a showman, Vegas; you would have loved this final piece of the operation. There's still one person who hasn't paid for the life of Sherri McNamara-life for life, as the Scripture says. Know who that is?"
Quinn paused in his writing. Another murder?
"The jury forewoman who freed Paul Donaldson, believing him instead of Sherri," Bo said. "The Avenger will take her out in a very dramatic fashion at the precise moment I'm giving my closing statement. Time of death will be easy to verify. Catherine will no longer be a legitimate suspect, and I'll have an airtight alibi if anybody is ever inclined to look in my direction."
Quinn didn't turn to look, but it almost sounded like Boland was smiling.
"Billy Long has no connection to the McNamara case," Bo continued, "so no one will ever suspect him. These crimes will remain unsolved forever."
Quinn felt the barrel of the gun against the back of his neck.
"Hurry up, Vegas. You're stalling and I'm getting hungry."
102
Without warning, everything went dark.
Quinn had no idea what had just happened. A blown fuse? The engine was still powering beneath them, the boat gliding forward. Quinn could barely make out the contour of objects in the study-the darkness broken only by a dim light that seemed to be filtering down the hallway from the main deck.
This might be his last chance.
He flung his handcuffed fists back and to his right, like a double-fisted backhand, connecting with what felt like the face of Boland. Pain shot through Quinn's injured right shoulder.
Crack! Boland squeezed off a shot as he fell backward, and Quinn felt the bullet breeze past his head.
Bo crashed into the wall, and Quinn dove at him, landing on top of Bo and grabbing his right wrist with both hands. Quinn slammed Bo's gun hand against the wall, trying to dislodge the gun, but Bo held on. With surprising speed, Bo locked onto Quinn's arm, lowered his own shoulder, and rolled, his weight carrying him on top of Quinn. He jammed his left elbow into Quinn's gut, a blow that caused Quinn to release his grip on Bo's wrist as the air fled from Quinn's lungs.
Bo exploded to his feet, then whirled and towered over Quinn, the gun pointed at his chest. "Nice try, Vegas," Bo gasped. "I like your spunk."
He took a step or two backward, out of Quinn's reach. Not that it mattered. Quinn was in excruciating pain and had no fight left in him.
"Billy!" Boland yelled. "What happened to the fuse?"
Getting no answer, Bo back-stepped to the door and flipped the light switch a few times to no avail. He raised the gun slightly so it pointed directly at Quinn's forehead. Though Boland's hand was steady, Quinn could tell that the darkness and the lack of response from Billy Long had him worried.
"Billy!" Bo yelled again.
He glanced into the narrow hallway and apparently saw nothing. Breathing heavily, he took a step toward Quinn. "You just forfeited your last meal, Vegas. Any last words?"
Surprisingly, looking down the barrel of the gun, Quinn felt no fear. In that final split second, his life reduced itself to a series of images, past and future, flashing across Quinn's brain in nanoseconds, producing a final collage of intense emotions. Annie and Sierra embracing again. Sierra's wedding. Annie's grandchild. Law partners in solemn mourning one second and at their desks the next. Snapshots of clients and friends. And one final picture freezing on Catherine O'Rourke, her compassionate eyes comforting Quinn, her lips mouthing his name…
A shot rang out. Quinn flinched, anticipating the impact.
103
At first, Jamarcus Webb was skeptical. The last six months had been among the hardest in his life. His friend Catherine O'Rourke had gone to jail to protect him as her source. But when the evidence began mounting against her, Jamarcus did what he had to do.
Even at the time, he knew how much it would cost him.
He told the police chief everything he knew about Catherine, revealing his own status as Catherine's inside source and bringing down the wrath of the entire department on his head. A disciplinary board would ultimately decide his fate. In the meantime, he had been reassigned to administrative duty. He cursed the day he had first met Catherine O'Rourke.
So it didn't make sense when he accepted her collect call from jail. It made even less sense when her supposed confession turned into a plea for help. She had seen another vision. Quinn Newberg was in trouble. This time the handwriting was not a Scripture verse but a location. Class Action.
"Marc Boland is the Avenger of Blood," Catherine said, pleading with Jamarcus to believe her. "It all makes sense. Please, Jamarcus, I'm begging you. Go check it out."
Against his better judgment, he did.
He watched from a perch on the deck of a neighboring boat as Quinn Newberg climbed onto Class Action, carrying what was left of his six-pack. He saw Quinn's investigator, Billy Long, appear a few minutes later, silently waiting in the shadows on deck. Through the tinted glass of the salon area he could see Quinn and Marc Boland engaged in tense conversation until the shades came down and covered the windows. A minute or two later, he watched Billy Long scramble inside the pilothouse, gun drawn.